Chapter 47
Chapter 47
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 47
Chapter Title: #10 Banquet (1)
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After finishing up at the tailor's and heading back, Elric felt a stifling frustration.
It was because this damn heart of his refused to listen.
What kept coming to mind was the incident with Aman Nimrud, Tiria's explanation afterward, and his own reaction in that moment.
'Hate it.'
He hated the idea of a future where Aman Nimrud was with Tiria.
No, it wasn't just that— the thought of anyone in the world by her side filled him with a sickening disgust that welled up inside.
It was unpleasant.
The creeping emotion felt like it was tightly squeezing his throat.
And that made Elric feel truly ashamed.
'...Selfish.'
He scolded himself like that.
Who was he to judge, when he'd been the one to leave her alone in the first place?
If she wanted someone, he should be blessing her.
And he was the one who owed her an apology for all those past years.
Yet here he was hating it—how selfish could he be?
"Family Head, is your stomach bothering you?"
When she spoke to him first, his negative emotions ballooned beyond words.
He turned his head, and spring barley-like green eyes captured his vision.
A thought surfaced.
If someone had to make her happy,
'Couldn't it be... me?'
The moment it crossed his mind, Elric flinched and trembled.
"Family Head?"
"Ah, it's nothing."
Feeling heat rush to his face, Elric answered hastily.
He needed to change the subject.
The urge to escape this line of thinking surged repeatedly.
"But are there no other appointments?"
Yeah, this would work.
"The banquet still has two days left. Since we're in the capital, I was wondering if there was anything that needed handling... something like that."
Thankfully, Tiria responded.
"No major issues."
"Is that so?"
"Yes. Normally, one would mingle with other nobles, but the Portman Family is a new house that's only recently joined noble society, so we lack the connections."
Tiria turned her head toward the distant royal castle as she spoke.
"It's a concern. We should try to build some ties at this banquet."
At her words, Elric felt a pang of guilt stab at his chest.
-Go on. Rack your brains and figure out a way to pay back this insult. I'll be waiting with bated breath.
He recalled the tailor's shop incident.
Connections? He might not have gained allies, but he'd certainly made enemies.
An awkward smile tugged at Elric's lips, and Tiria asked,
"...Are you really all right?"
"I'm fine. Really fine."
Had his hasty choice created an enemy?
No, that Nimrud heir had been far too brazen.
The beast of a man, probably riddled with STDs, leering at Tiria—how repulsive was that?
Enduring it for the family's future? Elric couldn't even imagine it.
Pushing down his unease, they arrived at the mansion, where Aldio had returned from his early morning outing.
"Ah, did the errands go well?"
Aldio greeted them with a bright smile.
But there was a hint of distress in his demeanor.
Elric responded, puzzled.
"They said the clothes will be delivered by tomorrow. But why the long face?"
"W-Well..."
Aldio glanced at Elric and Tiria.
"...They said the bed can't be delivered today."
Elric felt his heart sink in despair.
"Wh-What do you mean?"
"I tried to find even a small one, but with the timing... Local nobles flooding into the capital have been snapping up new furniture. Because of that..."
Aldio trailed off, hanging his head.
Elric stared blankly at Tiria.
She gazed inscrutably at Aldio for a moment before saying,
"...We'll have to share the same bed again tonight."
It was dangerous.
Tonight was really dangerous.
He didn't know exactly what was dangerous, but instinctively, he knew falling asleep would be even harder than the night before. The feeling kept rising within him.
Elric looked to Aldio with eyes pleading for rescue, but he averted his gaze.
It was then.
"Time for dinner!"
The maid broke the mood.
Aldio slipped away like a shadow.
Elric screamed internally.
*
If asked to name the wealthiest house in the Ferdin Kingdom, the answer would invariably be the Nimrud Count family.
It was peculiar.
Typically, the real power in a kingdom was held by the royals or great nobles like dukes or marquises.
Yet such peculiarities weren't entirely unheard of.
Dalton Nimrud Count proved it.
With a vast territory rivaling a ducal house, connections spanning inside and outside the kingdom that he wielded like power, and his own boundless ambition.
Dalton Nimrud was a count with might that even the Ferdin king envied.
But even he wasn't without weaknesses.
No, everyone knew his weakness.
"...Portman Baron?"
"Y-Yes..."
In the study of the Nimrud residence on the royal road.
Amid the room radiating opulent decorations, Dalton gazed down at the man kneeling with head bowed.
It was Aman Nimrud, his son.
"Not even a baron, from what I hear. Just some heir who couldn't even properly complete the succession."
Irritation began to seep into his voice.
"You're telling me you got beaten by trash like that and just whimpered?"
Dalton's eyes blazed with fury.
Aman's body shrank further.
"...Useless fool."
Clicking his tongue, Dalton thought of Portman.
'Crossing paths again, huh.'
Deep wrinkles furrowed Dalton's brow.
What came to mind was a few years back, when Portman's previous Family Head was still alive.
'Hoben Portman—that guy rubbed me the wrong way too.'
Intrigued by the upstart noble who'd ousted the century-old Weibin locals and seized the territory, he'd approached him once.
He believed capable retainers should always be recruited.
But Hoben Portman had seen through his intentions and rejected him outright.
-I'm grateful for the favor, but it feels beyond my station. I'm just a country bumpkin running a small rural fief and a trading company.
He'd politely downplayed himself, but it was clear he simply hated subservience.
His attitude made it obvious.
Daring to refuse the Nimruds in Ferdin.
Dalton soured at the memory.
"Son takes after the father..."
"F-Father?"
"Get out. I can't stand the sight of you."
Aman swallowed hard with a squeak, bowed hastily, and scurried away.
Dalton sighed.
"To think that's my son."
Utterly useless.
Not some secluded spot, but a tailor's on the bustling First Avenue, teeming with nobles.
The rumor of Aman getting thrashed by Elric Portman was bound to spread.
Bad optics.
His son, the face of the family, beaten by a non-baron nobody—prestige demanded cleanup.
Dalton left the mansion at once.
'What's done is done.'
But it couldn't be flaunted.
He could overlook rudeness, but he had to show that the responsibility lay solely with the offender.
His destination was a remote alley in the capital.
A robed figure with a sword stood before a shabby wooden door.
Recognizing Dalton, he stepped aside.
The moment he entered,
"...Coming here so often is a problem."
A gloomy voice echoed.
Dalton tensed.
His power brooked no rivals anywhere, but this foe required caution.
"The situation's changed a bit."
"Changed how? Your son getting beat up?"
He already knew.
Dalton's brow furrowed.
The robed man chuckled gutturally and waved it off.
"Well, since I've helped this much, I'll let it slide. I know I wouldn't be here without you."
He rose from his seat.
Dalton took a short breath and said,
"...Can you handle it?"
"Let's confirm first."
"What?"
"We only know one way: killing. That guy who roughed up your son—can he die?"
The casual tone about murder was deeply unsettling.
Tension rose in Dalton's gut, but he wasn't one to show it.
"As long as there's no evidence linking the murder to me."
"Clean up the aftermath, you mean. Smart. Just spread the rumor that the punk who tormented your son dropped dead."
He shrugged with a mocking edge.
It was his way of agreeing.
"I'll leave it to you."
Dalton added one more thing.
"I trust that you, called the envoys of the west, can pull this off blindfolded."
The man grinned.
"Thanks for using Moon Shadow again today, milord noble."
Moon Shadow—the name of the assassin group that had slain the most prominent figures in the western warzones.